Our Red String of Fate
by TheRottenJas
Summary: "An invisible red thread connects those who are destined to meet, regardless of time, place, or circumstance. The thread may stretch or tangle but it will never break." - A Chinese Myth. The string which Hermione had been referring to has been tied around her pinky for as long as she could remember it, or as far back as her memories form. Red String of Fate! AU Dramione.


**A/N:** This story is dedicated to **_hiddenhibernian_** in the Monthly One-Shot Exchange! I really hope you'll like it. I haven't written a Dramione in forever, which is so sad, so I hope it turned out well. It's more Hermione-centric, actually. Please R&R! :D

 **Prompts:** Pairing - Draco/Hermione, Genre: Angst (It's just a tad of it, I think), Prompt: Everything will be all right poem by Derek Mahons. ; Red String of Fate! AU

 **Word count:** 2032

 **Disclaimer:** Nope. Never Have, Never Will.

* * *

 ** _Our Red String of Fate_**

* * *

" _An invisible red thread connects_

 _those who are destined to meet,_

 _regardless of of time, place, or circumstance._

 _The thread may stretch or tangle,_

 _but it will never break."_

 _\- Red String of Fate, Chinese Myth_

"Can you see this string?" Hermione wonders out loud, not for the first time, while her mother tries to tame her wild hair for picture day. The string which Hermione had been referring to has been tied around her pinky for as long as she could remember it, or as far back as her memories form. The thin, red string that belongs only to her. "It's beautiful, isn't it?" Hermione whispers as she holds her pinky up to the sunlight which seeps through the open window in her room.

Emma Granger laughs softly, shaking her head, at her daughter's random rambles. "Are you talking about the red string again, sweetie?" She has heard Hermione talk on and on about this red string which she could only see. Sometimes she has even talked about Emma's string. It wasn't anything new, not really. "Is it deep red today? Or a light red?"

Hermione grins, dropping her hand down from the air into her lap. She knew her mother didn't _really_ believe she had a string there but it felt nice to be asked either way. Her string, which usually remained one solid color red throughout most of the years, began to darken and lighten when she turned eight. When the string turns a deep red, she feels this sadness course through her heart which is unexplainable. When the string is a bright red, a red so bold that it hurts her eyes, she feels as if she's walking on clouds. "It's light, today. It's so very red!"

Emma smiles, patting her daughter's head, as she applies gel to Hermione's hair. Dreams and fantasies were important to children, so she didn't like to disillusion them just yet. However, Emma feels that Hermione was becoming too old to keep believing in them as Hermione persistently still was. "Well, your hair is done and I'm afraid that's as good as it's going to be. Your hair is too stubborn." She sighs, looking at Hermione's hair which was swept up into a ponytail but still had curls and wisps of hair go free. She taps Hermione's nose, laughing. "Just like you."

"I'm not stubborn," Hermione responds, wrinkling her nose, but the smile on her face speaks for itself. She didn't care about her hair, at all. But this strange string, on the other hand, was always on the back of her mind whether she liked it or not. "My hair is only going to get wild again. What's the point of fixing it up for a moment? Like say, this thread will stay on my pinky forever, so I need to take of this, not my hair"

"Hermione, darling, you'll understand when you're older. Now enough about this string and got to school or you'll miss the bus." She looks at her Hermione's semi-neat hair in the mirror before accepting it and letting the girl stand up. Hermione quickly grabs her knapsack and bolts out of her room. "Don't forget to give the nice lady the picture packet!"

Hermione laughs, and it resonates around the quiet house, when she jumps down the flights of stairs until she's out the door. Her mother always insists on buying the school photographs every single time. Hermione doesn't like it much since she never looks good in any of the photographs. The only good thing that she likes about herself, besides her brain, is the string wrapped around her finger. Just by looking at the string, it fills her up with hope. She hasn't told her mother, not yet, but there is a myth attached to the string.

 _The myth about soulmates._

 _The myth about someone, somewhere out there, that is her other half, a part of her soul. Someone who simply understands her, perfectly._

"Why, good morning," greets the school bus lady as Hermione climbs on board.

Hermione smiles and looks for an open seat. Dread runs through her body when she realizes the only free seats left are all on the back of the bus. Hermione was never the social butterfly, so she has taken being by herself most of the time. She doesn't bother anyone at school, just tries her best at her studies and spends her free time in the library. Unfortunately, that doesn't stop the bullies from picking at her for those exact reasons.

"Oi! Granger, what's that pathetic hair style?" Annabeth Cresa, the school bully, taunts as Hermione walks down the narrow aisle. Annabeth has glossy, blonde hair and dark blue eyes which are filled with malice. She sits next to her friends who enjoy their favorite game of teasing her. "A bird's nest, that's what it is! No matter how much you try you're only Granger."

Hermione clenches her teeth and controls her breaths as the school bus fills with children's laughter.

 _Someone out there understands me._

 _Someone out there will like me._

 _Someone out there will accept me,_ she sniffles, _for who I am._

She sits down stiffly in an open seat, repeating the words in her head all the way until the bus rides end.

 _But who is connected with me?_

* * *

 _"How should I not be glad to contemplate_

 _the clouds clearing beyond the dormer window_

 _and a high tide reflected on the ceiling?"_

"I'm Hermione Granger," she answers brightly, smiling at the other boy.

"Hullo, I'm Neville Longbottom," the shy boy mumbles, looking at the floor. In his hands was a toad. "Er, this is Trevor."

Hermione grins, seating herself in front of Neville. Nobody knows her in this odd place. She's a witch, too. She has _magic._ "Have you given any thought to which House you'd like to be placed in?"

Neville flushes, "I think I belong in Hufflepuff."

"What's so wrong about that?" Hermione asks, raising a brow. "I've read everything I could get my hands on about Hogwarts. It is not a bad House. Though, I'd like to be in Gryffindor."

"My par-" Neville glances down and groans,."Trevor! Have you seen my toad?"

Hermione frowns, looking around the empty compartment. "I can help find him if you like." She stands and begins walking down the corridor. The toad couldn't have gotten far. Maybe she should ask around. She breaths then cheerfully opens a nearby compartment.

"Hello, have any of you seen a toad around? Neville's lost his." She glances around nervously as the students pause and look at her in dislike. "I'm Hermione Granger, by the way."

"Look," a girl with a sort of squashed in face and black, short hair sneers, "we can't help you. Get lost."

"Pansy, you don't have to be _mean_ ," laughs a dark-skinned boy with obsidian eyes. He nudges the boy with the striking platinum blonde hair who has had his head down since she walked in.

The boy lifts his head and their eyes meet.

It is the initial euphoria times about a hundred. A rush of joy, of exhilaration, of completeness. Of every positive emotion that she's ever felt before. It feels as if time has stopped completely and only the boy with the storm grey eyes is in motion. It is electrifying and thrilling and peaceful all at once; it feels like _home_. This is the other part of her soul, the one she's missing. Her eyes glance down and as clear as day she sees her red string - which glows faintly - connecting to the other boy's pinky.

"Draco, are you listening to me? Tell the loser to scram."

Then the moment is gone. She gasps, slightly out of breath, and smiles at _Draco._

"Get lost," Draco spats, looking at her with hate and worse - disgust. "I said get out!"

Everybody looks slightly baffled at how forceful Draco is being. Hermione gulps, tears stinging the back of her eyes, and she turns on her heels and quickly walks out. She was an idiot.

 _Someone out there understands me._

 _Someone out there will like me._

 _Someone out there will accept me_ , she laughs hysterically, _for who I am._

There was no guarantee that her supposed soul mate would like her back. She let herself believe in a fantasy that wasn't real. Maybe she even imagined the red thread herself.

 _What an idiot._

* * *

 _"There will be dying, there will be dying_

 _but there is no need to go into that."_

Hermione Granger practices smiling into the mirror, arranging her hair into a simple ponytail, as she gets ready to leave. Even then, her smile is strained and her eyes are bloodshot from the lack of sleep. Only a year has passed since the War. She rubs her eyes and laughs, letting a few tears slip out. _Only a year._

"Are you ready to go?" Ginny asks softly from the door. Her face looks tired and weary and Hermione can only imagine she looks the same.

Hermione nods, not trusting herself to speak lest she have a breakdown. She grabs her wand and purse then a second later they're gone.

A small popping noise and the pair appear just outside the gates of Hogwarts. Hermione straightens and forces her legs to walk through the once joyful grounds of Hogwarts. Miraculously, she makes it all the way to the memorial service. She sits silently - her face somber - as Shacklebolt begins speaking and remains silent all the way to the end of the speech. Then one by one like water dripping from a faucet the crowd begins to walk up to the giant, memorial plaque. Hermione closes her eyes and simply breaths. She's a mess and she knows it. Ever since the War has ended. Her parents are still out there with no recognition of ever having a daughter. Friends and cherished ones are dead and she is alive. This beautiful world is cruel.

"Granger," a voice calls behind her quietly.

Even without turning around she knows who it is. How can she not? This is the same voice which sets her heart thumping in her ears. "Malfoy."

"Is it still there?" he asks hesitantly, sitting down in the seat next to her. "The string?"

"Barely," she whispers, opening her eyes. She gives him a sad smile and lifts up her hand in the air. The once solid red string has been tainted with black and the number of knots has accumulated. Still, every day she studies the string wondering if one day when she has finally wasted away in her depression, if it will turn completely black and snap. Even after all that has happened she wonders if the string is still there - worn out and dirty- but _there_. Her eyes can't help but look for it. Every. Single. Day. "It's beautiful, isn't it?" she asks, looking with sad eyes at her tainted string.

Draco smiles wearily. "I saw it once. A long time ago when we were children." He chuckles softly, running a hand through his platinum blonde hair. "Sometimes I wonder if it's there at night. I wonder if it's still connecting us even if it has stretched thin."

Hermione smiles and drops her hand in her lap. "It's there."

That's why Hermione knows that her string is beautiful.

 _Because it's still there._

Draco lifts his hand up and Hermione mirrors his movement. For a second, they stop breathing then they touch hands. The feeling is . . . indescribable. They both gasp at the electricity current which starts where their fingers meet, lacing down their arms, spreading warmth throughout both of them. Hermione feels as if she's walking on clouds - her mind is blank only focusing on the silvery grey eyes of Draco Malfoy - this is a whole different kind of breathless.

Neither Hermione nor Draco have any idea of how long they sit there, hands joined and fingers intertwined, feeling the soft electricity hum throughout their bodies, running through them with a sensation of warmth, never fading.

 _"The sun rises in spite of everything_

 _and the far cities are beautiful and bright_

 _I live here in a riot of sunlight_

 _watching the days break and clouds flying._

 _Everything is going to be all right."_


End file.
